I am
moving
too slowly
to be
alive
and the
red-tailed
hawk
circling
above
my head
has sensed
death.
We are
companions
here
in this
place
of syllable
and stress,
a formless
habitat,
where yellow
poppies
invite
themselves
into my
mouth.
I came
here with
the intention
of finding
the moon,
a thing lost
to me, but
found instead
one perfect
brown gaze
fixed on me
from across
a distance
of flesh and bone.
Soon the
daylight
will be
fading,
the hawk
will retreat,
and I
will be
alone–
a woman
who has
survived
a footrace
with a god
and the
misguided
longing
of a
hungry
raptor
rlmcdermott 